Catherine Zeta-Jonestown Massacre

Alright, I keep having this dream and I really need to tell somebody about it.

I'm this ancient city, a fortress really. I've got high walls and lookouts. I am impenetrable. Naturally, as a city, I am a thriving metropolis of art, culture and politics. One day, a gift is left outside my walls. It's a large wooden horse and I'm so impressed by the gift that I open my gates and let it in. It's a really beautiful horse and everybody admires it. That night, however, I am hyper-aware of its presence, because I know how these things work... But the night passes, uneventfully and the next day some of the children decorate the horse with flowers and things. I am still suspicious and do not trust that this gift is legit. Several weeks go by and still, no enemies emerge from within the horse. The anticipation is unbearable.

Some of the soldiers get drunk one night and decide to ride the horse around town. As they do this, they knock the horse off its stand and it shatters, like a pinata. Only, there is no candy inside. There is nothing inside. It was just a beautiful shell. The soldiers collect the pieces and throw them into a pile. The whole town comes out to mourn the loss of the pretty pony. The remains are lit on fire and it lights up the whole city. It was very sad, really.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and I just can't figure out exactly what this dream means. Obviously, part of the message is that I need more fiber in my diet. Also, I should probably give up my dreams of becoming a child-bride... Other than that, I have no idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I did write a musical called "The Trojan Whores", when I was thirteen, but somehow I think that's irrelevant. It would have been perfect for Catherine Zeta-Jones, since the lead character used her ample thighs to crush the enemy army. If I ever had to take out an army, I'm not sure how I would do it. Maybe I could just let them read my dream journal.

Talkin' Myspace Generation

So, over on my myspace page, I am rapidly closing in on having about 8000 friends. This is rather surprising to me, but I'm not complaining. For years, I struggled to get people to add me and thought of myspace as another way to collect rejection, humiliation and alienation... I guess I was wrong. Today, I spent some time looking at the motley crew of people who climbed aboard my ship. It's quite an eclectic group and I am proud to have them in my imaginary army. It occurred to me that any ordinary asshole celebrity doesn't get to choose who their fans are. People just like who they like and fuck you if that makes you uncomfortable. But I have to say that I dig checking out my friends and hope they dig what I have to offer.

Old School Spirit

So, I was at the bookstore yesterday, one of those chain stores with a coffee bar and multiple levels, just minding my own when I heard someone say: "How Old School are you?" I realized that this remark must have been addressed to me, since I was wearing a tee-shirt bearing the slogan: That's Right! I'm Old School! I turned to find a female, draped in violet velvets and such, sitting in a chair near the literature and poetry sections. She squinted through her cat-eye glasses and repeated the question. Having never been a fan of small talk with strangers, I mumbled a half-hearted response. "Old enough."

"I ask," she continued. "Because as a graduate student..." She went on about the ignorance of her youthful classmates, dismayed that there are aspiring filmmakers who have never heard of Frank Capra. I told her that I was no longer in school and I only bought the shirt because I'm cheap and I shop at Target. We discovered that we were both born the same year. She continued to talk to me for several minutes, about the nature of knowledge and other things. She bragged that she had read Chaucer at eleven years old. In short, she was a typical academic type, thinking she had found a kindred spirit. She had not. I basically dropped out of college to study drug addiction and performance art, full time. I learned a lot, but I lost more than I gained. I do treasure the academic friends I have, especially the ones who appreciate the fact that I am, for the most part, self-taught. But I was in no mood to bond over Shakespeare with this woman. She saw that I was on my way out of the conversation and decided to end it with a "quick joke".

"Charles Dickens walks into a bar and orders a martini.... The bartender looks at him and asks: Olive or Twist?" My eyes widened and I forced a chuckle from my lungs. Like Nancy Spungeon, I didn't want to live in a universe where that is considered funny. Or maybe I just don't get it... Regardless, I walked away, thanking her for the chat and continued my shopping. I ended up buying Only Revolutions by Mark Z. Danielewski. I try to read as much as possible, but not so much that I might end up telling crappy jokes to strangers at the local bookstore. Sometimes, I regret my unfortunate education. But it's like I tell my parole officer, "It's my life, don't you forget...."

Chewtoy of the Gods

I've been sick.

I don't mean in a carve-up-puppies-for-Halloween way, either. I have been put in my place by my allergies. This was a full-on assault on my body, though I tried in vain to continue my meager workout routine, my little body finally gave in and I was forced to submit. I stayed home crying and moping about for the last two days. Though I do feel better today, I am skeptical about the prospect of feeling like conquering the world anytime soon.

This always seems to happen when I have been working for a while. Suddenly, I have some time off and my body thinks it's being clever by taking advantage of the opportunity to kick my ass. I always say it is allergies, even if it's not. I don't like the idea of a viral infection one bit. Some nasty ass little germ traveling from someone's grody lungs into the air and finally being swallowed up into mine, that disgusts me. I much prefer the idea of some nasty ass little germ traveling from a mold spore or a freaking flower, into me. Don't ask me why...

So, having spent several days as a chewtoy of the gods, I am now ready to fight back. I emerged from my bed (after 12 quality hours, thank you Cherry NyQuil!) to find that the day is not so fucking ugly and I need to feel better. Perhaps I may even do a little yoga or some such activity... I certainly hope that the worst of it is over. I am a mean sick person. Anyway, here is a little word problem for you:

If I had a monkey and you were allergic to it, I would probably not get rid of it. I just wouldn't date you because monkeys are expensive. But I don't have a monkey, so what's the fucking problem?

Get On The SHORTBUS

By all means, you have to see John Cameron Mitchell's new film, Shortbus. It's an exhilarating cinematic experience exploring sexuality, love and life. Set in post 9/11 New York, mostly unknown actors (the best kind) engage in graphic sex scenes that help tell the story of their characters. It's an astonishingly beautiful film, intimate and engaging. I highly recommend it.



I love JCM's Hedwig & The Angry Inch and was more than a little worried that he planned to follow it up with "The Sex Film Project", as it was known for the last several years. But Mitchell delivers the goods here. It is explicit, but not in a titillating way, you become invested in the characters and the journey they are on. I can't really articulate exactly what I think of the film quite yet... In some ways, I feel like I have never seen a movie before in my life. I have definitely not seen anything like this before and it excites me to think about the ways this film will alter the cinematic landscape in years to come. In an age where people are obsessed with reality shows that are unrealistic, I think that the impact of Shortbus will be huge. Rarely are films so heartbreakingly funny and truthful. It moved me. It made me what to be one of the "special" kids. It made me want to ride the shortbus, all the way home...

COLD

"If you want to move someone else as an artist, you must be truly moved by what it is you're writing. But you must keep exploiting that emotion in yourself, over and over and over again, until you become completely cold about it." - Truman Capote

Just be careful not to freeze, Truman. Is that the lesson? Sometimes love doesn't mean what it's supposed to. I feel cold today. Maybe I will go to the gym and contemplate better bodies, run the wheel like a good pet and finally submit myself for rejection, yet again. What was the point of it all? Oh, yeah, we wanted to be puppetmasters. We thought it would be cool to have these great, elaborately constructed toys to play with. Control. Corrupt. Consider. I have been careless in the past, but it's not going to stop me from fucking up the future. I don't need very much to get by. I don't need anything at all... It's just this damn air I keep breathing and the sweet smell of humility. Don't you want me, baby?

I am good at exploiting many things. I am not sure that my own emotions fall under the banner of "many things." How can I pretend to understand something that I cannot name? The body had no identifying marks, no tell-tale signs of personal history or DNA to be decoded. It was simply cold. Still life and such. No... I am not a marksman for the ages. I am only here forever, this short time... And I knew, going in, that it wasn't going to be pretty. It was that challenge, in and of itself, that provoked me into action. Reaction. Retraction. Realization. Could it have been different if I had lied? Or at least told a better truth? More bitter blues from the peanut gallery, and black is the new black. Cold is the new season. Love is the new death. This is the new me.

Forget it then, pretend I never said anything. Exploit this, if you must, but know in your heart, that this is all my fault. Yeah, I have a flair for drama, but you need to break my heart to really appreciate the depths of my talents. I left them weeping in Tucson, because, in the end, it was simply too fucking hot there and I have always relied on the temperature to tell me my mood. Tell me, is it raining with you?

Blood and Roses

I've seriously had a lot of trouble thinking of things to blog about that aren't completely repulsive. Those of you who come here often can tell that I've been more than a little artistically constipated and the excuses I have are lacking in authenticity. Yeah, I've been desperately busy with work and even started dating again, but no one gives a shit about work and the dating thing... Well, let's just say, I don't want to say something that I will regret later.

So, here it is: I always seem to have the good fortune of knowing when my female employees are menstruating. They always work it into conversation, by way of an "excuse" for their absent-mindedness or lack of enthusiasm. I don't particularly care to know that the reason you were late was because you were bleeding like a stuck pig in the bathroom for a half an hour this morning. I understand that this is something that is perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of, but do I have to hear about it? Apparently, I do. Personally, if I am in the bathroom for more than two minutes, call an ambulance...